Land of the Plane Tree Leaf by Amir Hosein Bakhshian, Translated by Farshad Torkashvand. Chapter 2: The Land of the Plane Tree

 

Chapter 2: The Land of the Plane Tree

The golden clay dome of Fidus Square, located in the center of the Chenar Oil Company township, sounds and announces "six in the morning," signaling to the township residents the "wake up" call for the start of a workday. On the other side of the fence of the plane trees surrounding the four corners of the township, the dancing flames of the flare gas torch can be seen, providing warmth and light in the cold and darkness.

Upon hearing this sound—mixed with the sound of drizzling rain and continuous thunder and lightning—Zargis wakes up in a state of disarray and immediately goes to her phone, hurriedly turning on her tablet, hoping it might be Sam Analin so she could talk to him. The phone's light illuminates her face, giving it a holy halo, but there's no news of her only child, and her eyes fall on Sam's last seen and last message: "I have no choice but to follow up on getting a visa and then a plane ticket—something I should have done years ago, perhaps to bring some order to my life. At the first opportunity, I need to clarify the matter of Behzad's possible property, and the next decision is with you, but before that, I must find Rozita and ask her some questions to uncover the sealed secret of Behzad. I suspect she has come to Iran a few days ago, but unfortunately, she has put her phone on airplane mode... I think the only place she can be found is around Lake Keo. I'll call myself whenever possible. Don't worry, dear mother!"

Simultaneously with reading the text, Sam's voice echoes in her ears, and she takes his knitted greenish woolen scarf, which lies next to her pillow, between her hands and smells it, perhaps to find some comfort. Like a lover caught in a fantasy, she embraces the dawn breeze from her bed with the scent of flowers.

Then, reluctantly and with agitation, she gets out of bed, throws her lemon-yellow knitted cardigan over her shoulders, and stands before her fogged-up console mirror. In the half-light of the orange lampshade, she runs her hand through her disheveled hair, glances at her tired, sorrowful face, turns off the lampshade, turns on the fluorescent ceiling light of the room, and winds the handle of her music box so its melody resonates through the room—perhaps this way she can ease some of her anxiety and distress. A pleasant, soothing song fills the space, the favorite tune of her late father, which she hums to herself:

"O Maryam, open your eyes / Lift your head / The dawn has broken / The sun has risen / It's time to go to the meadow / O graceful Maryam / O graceful Maryam"

First, she looks at the Armenian-woven Lilihan carpet with a medallion design beneath her feet—a keepsake from her mother—and seeing it brings to life in her heart memories of the pomegranate orchard and the field of poppies. Then, the sound of raindrops and the twilight sky draw her to the window. She touches the colorful flower-printed curtains, opens the arched window, and suddenly the life-giving scent of wet, rain-soaked plane leaves and the damp wood of eaves, doors, windows, and the birch and alder fences of the gardens and houses in the township overwhelm her. From behind her prescription glasses, she gazes at the outside view: rain is falling and intensifying, covering the roofs of the townhouses—mostly brick and in bungalow-style architecture with Victorian balconies—and the cars in the parking lots of yards surrounded by golden boxwood hedges. The cars are covered with wet, rain-soaked plane leaves. The heavy rainfall alongside the gutters on both sides of "Mohajeran Lane" has created flowing streams, and the entire Bermuda grass golf course is flooded. As always, the flames of the flare gas torch make hope flow through her heart. Lately, she had heard from Shabrokh that they planned to recover the gas from this torch to prevent its waste, but Zargis neither objected nor agreed, saying: "As long as this burning torch gives light and warmth, I am alive."

Then she looks at the completely green house opposite theirs, covered in thick ivy that barely lets the redness of the bricks show through—that is, the villa of Lillian Baxter, the English and French teacher at the Oil Company's school. White smoke spreads from their rusty brick chimney, and as always, the light of a candle or lantern is visible from the window of the attic room—at times like this, she is either reading or busy typing and authoring green books and writing articles about the restoration of oak and wild pistachio forests.

Lillian's shadow appears and disappears for a moment as she closes a book and places it on the bookshelf, then takes a blue pitcher and begins watering the flowers and pots on every windowsill.

She is known as the Green Lady, and her garden and greenhouse are famous among everyone. She is always planting trees and cultivating flowers and vegetables in the backyard garden, and the "Rose Garden Flower Shop" and "Family Farms Market" of the Chenar Oil Company, located at the corner of the township's Rainbow Intersection, are her loyal customers. Her house decoration, from floor to ceiling, encompasses every shade of green: olive, phosphorescent, cedar, lemon, henna, and muddy.

In front of Lillian's paved house, a white carriage with a red folding canopy, whose driver is in uniform and has covered the horses with ponchos, waits for Lillian to take her to Doshirgan High School on time. Until she arrives, he is grooming and petting the horses, occasionally taking bread with butter from his saddlebag and giving it to the horses, who whinny in thanks.

Years ago, it was decided to permanently dismantle the carriage station and stables of the Chenar Oil Company, but Lillian's persistence and her husband Engineer Hakopian's support kept the carriages running and the horses active—including Lillian's special carriage, whose horses she has named Shabrang and Shabahang.

Zargis thinks: Lillian has been the only confidante and patient confidant in these years. Although she is not of the same nationality or language, she has been a very good companion and confidant! This can be understood from the sparkle in her eyes and the tears that flow every time she sees Behzad's photo—this affection is evident. Unlike many distant and close relatives who act as if no bird has ever flown from the sky of their homeland... "Whenever I see Behzad's photo on the shelf in your room, my heart aches and tears involuntarily flow from my eyes."

The light of the wooden cottage housing the golfers flickers in the distance, and involuntarily she remembers her son Sam, who used to play on this golf course on weekends, and from behind this window she would watch her only son. She sighs coldly, tears well in her eyes, and she whispers: "Where have you gone, my bronze wild and unruly horse... I tried everything but couldn't tame you and Behzad. I should have put a bridle of affection in your mouths to be able to pull your reins..."

Morning has come but the sky is still dark and twilight-like, and due to the thick fog caused by heavy rain suspended in the air, visibility is reduced. From among the traditional fabric of the township—which is called Kuy-e Delbar and whose architecture is entirely Iranian—only the turquoise tiled minarets of the Amir al-Mu'minin Mosque, richly decorated with gilding and illumination of Allah's names and Quranic verses, stand tall. In the modern part of the township, the neon sign of the Moulin Rouge Cinema on Talegraf Street—shaped like a red windmill—is visible, casting its orange glow through the flickering on the rows of plane trees. One cannot see clearly, and the darkness of the sky and the blanket of clouds have made the atmosphere eerie and dreamlike. Only the row of lampposts on Mohajeran Lane allows one to see the surroundings more clearly—the path that Athena in her bunny-collar uniform and Bardia with his school bag, Mrs. Masouri with her wheeled basket, Mr. Khorramabadi with his blue boiler suit, and Engineer Khorshidi in his grape-green Toyota pass through every day, but today there is no sign of them.

The entrance to Lillian's house is decorated with dancing light strings, making the greenness of her house a hundredfold more visible and evoking the Northern Lights. Beside the wooden entrance door, several pots of "Panjeh Maryam" (Mary's Hand) and "Dokhtar-e Konsol" (Console's Daughter) flowers are placed, and she has adorned her Christmas pine with a shining star so that you might think Santa Claus, riding his sleigh with Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer and the rest of the reindeer carrying all sorts of gifts, is about to arrive. She is the only remaining foreigner in the Chenar Oil Company township—a Canadian lady from the small city of Niagara on the Lake who has lived in the Chenar Oil Company for years with her husband, Engineer Hakopian, who is an officer at the pump station, and their only child, Sophia. As Engineer Hakopian says, she tries to make this place resemble that place—or perhaps because this place has become familiar, it reminds her of there.

The sound of crows "cawing" and wolves "howling" reaches Zargis, making her somewhat stiff. She thinks to herself: why doesn't that female wolf, which has taken refuge in the den behind the poplar trees of the tennis court during her daily walks, attack her? Instead, it just watches and only nurses its pups. Zargis remembers that she must take food to that female wolf as soon as possible, even in heavy rain, cold, frost, and possible snow and blizzard—

She thinks: why does the crow that sits on her windowsill every day carry a message? Because after Zargis places a few pistachio kernels in the crow's beak, it utters vague and obscure words and then flies away—a sentence resembling the women's rights declaration "women are persons." As the music box sound cuts off, she turns her face toward Shabrokh, who has badly wrapped himself in a blanket and glued himself to the fireplace. The calmness radiating from Shabrokh's face irritates her; her patience runs out, and she angrily shouts: "Why did you let Sam go on this trip? Do you want him to suffer Behzad's fate?!"

Shabrokh can barely stand—nothing but skin and bones remains of him! He rubs his eyes, yawns, and reluctantly pushes the blanket away and sits on the edge of the bed. His hair is spiky and his mustache is flattened. Before anything else, he presses the button of his digital gramophone between the fireplace and his bed and joins the singer in harmony:

"O eye, you are my cup and measure / Two hundred wine vessels are all the passion of love and my intoxication from one glance of yours..."

He takes several heavy drags and then with a sneer says: "A Sufi cannot become pure until he drains the cup / Much travel is needed for the raw to become cooked... This was a path he chose himself. You yourself were witness to the matter—I did everything I could to stop him. Here, he had every kind of opportunity: work, wife, life, and... besides, Behzad's case is completely different—he loved his profession of medicine, his people, and serving them, and unfortunately, the Tupolev plane crashed into the sacred mountain. Behzad is a legend in people's minds, unlike Sam, who intends to emigrate without any plan or program and is going to go thousands of miles away for no good reason..."

And then, as if she wants to change her own mood and the atmosphere of the house, she puts on the Christmas song "Jingle Bells" and says: "Dear Zargis, for Christmas Eve we have many guests; we must get to work from now and decorate the Christmas pine... I wish this difficult night would end soon and we could quickly clear away the Yalda Night spread."

Zargis, ignoring her, first fixes her eyes on her bronze figurines in the glass cabinet, which Sam jokingly called the "Bronze Jungle." Then she runs her hand over her antique painted plates, moves forward a little, and presses her hand on the gramophone button and says: "I don't want to hear anything—whether sad or happy—and besides, I'll tell you right now that I'm fed up with those newly-rich guests of yours who try to act like gentlemen and nobles, and it's unclear whether they belong here or there. Like yourself, who until yesterday played the role of Haji Firuz and Uncle Nowruz, and now you've become a one-legged Santa Claus—of the mass-produced type, of course... You invited them yourself, so you entertain them yourself! But without touching my Yalda Night spread, because I prepared it with love and for Sam, and I'll wait until he comes. Don't bother trying to manipulate me—I'll stay with you and grumble from morning till night... My brother and sister in Toronto insist I come to them and have recently sent me an invitation. Sam's departure is a good excuse to accept their invitation and see them after all these years. Sam is also searching for and trying to find Rozita—that daughter of Mr. Zarrin-Kafsh, your former colleague, who in the early 60s in Lin-e Karmand-ha were our wall-to-wall neighbors, and you had a lot of socializing, playing golf and billiards together, and I was close friends with his wife, Mrs. Caterina—she was Behzad's kindergarten teacher, and I was the supervisor at the Chenar Oil Company clinic. In that turmoil, I gave birth to her daughter Rozita. Those were the days—I wish we could go back to that time. Then they were transferred to the Neyside area of Ahvaz, and I was out of touch with them for several years until I heard that Behzad and Rozita had met and made promises to each other. But I never thought Rozita would turn her back on her promise to Behzad and fall for that foreigner and leave. Also, I've decided to donate my bronze collection to the Falak ol-Aflak Castle Museum—bronzes I spent a lifetime collecting. I wish I could start a Progressive Women's Association and help underprivileged girls deprived of education and basic healthcare again—unfortunately, my hands are tied."

And then she whispers: "Remember the flight—the bird is mortal."

Shabrokh runs his hand through his hair and gels his eyes: "I know you're mostly upset with me because of Behzad, even though I was among the first to raise the issue of brain drain in student and intellectual circles and wrote many articles criticizing it in 'Mash'al' weekly—which I once edited—and in other humanities newspapers and magazines, with the headline that 'pistachio shells no longer have room for pistachio kernels.' But I had to act contrary to my slogans and beliefs. You yourself witnessed how much I tried for Behzad's emigration and advancement—I called acquaintances and strangers, pulled strings with everyone possible to get him to continue his studies in Canada and specialize in cardiology. I had to sell our pomegranate orchard with its view of the poppy field to ensure he had no financial shortage. But all his thought was of Iran and serving its people. Now this reckless, flighty Sam has gotten the itch for emigration and foreign lands—well, what fault is that of mine?! A person faces their own hardships wherever they live. I don't want to go back to those times and memories, when we were all caught up in war and bombings. I'll never forget those days—the bombing raids, and how several times our oil pump stations were targeted by enemy missiles. At night we'd replace the Tang-e Fani pump station turbine with great difficulty, and by morning the enemy's fifth column would realign it and we'd be hit again. At the beginning of the war, Iraqi Ba'athist MiGs hit the gas station on the Khuzestan-Lorestan road, killing many innocent people waiting in line for gas and wounding hundreds more. At that time, Minister Tondguyan was the Oil Minister, and I personally wrote to him requesting air defense and anti-aircraft measures. Truly, God had mercy on us all that the situation didn't get worse."

Shabrokh sighs coldly and whispers: "From those days on, after Rozita's disappearance and Behzad's death and those events, I haven't seen Mr. and Mrs. Zarrin-Kafsh. As far as I know, after his retirement, they bought a villa in Kianpars, Ahvaz. I'm afraid to see them again and have those memories revisited, old resentments resurface, and that old wound reopen... Has Rozita really come to Iran?!"

Zargis takes a cigarette box and a silver filigree lighter from her console drawer. She lights a cigarette, takes a strong drag, leans back against Shabrokh, and says: "I know as much as you do—that she has come, and that's all. Besides, these are all just words, Monsieur Jean-Paul Sartre—you who only know how to theorize... I know very well that you held a grudge against her, and that too because of that ridiculous night! Even now when I remember, it makes me sick."

Shabrokh takes several heavy drags and stands up angrily: "That rascal had to be punished—he had stretched his leg beyond his rug."

Zargis says: "Punishment, yes, but not by crushing his throat underfoot on a cold night... Sam threw me out of his own house. Finding Rozita and emigrating was just an excuse. As far as I know, Rozita has no one here except her parents—she must have had a reason to come back. God willing, Rozita will be found and prevent Sam from leaving. After all, she was Behzad's flesh and blood, and she smells of Behzad to me. Do you remember—I delivered her with my own hands."

Shabrokh says angrily: "Please don't blame me for everything. Whatever it was, that night Sam's behavior was suspicious, and it was clear he was hiding something from us. End of story!"

Then Shabrokh goes to his office, toward his desk and papers, and picks up a pen. He turns on his reading lamp, chews on the end of his pencil, and chafes. Nothing comes to mind; he puts the chewed pencil on the desk and picks up a newspaper to concentrate, looking for a title for their weekly. His eyes fall on an article about the nationalization of the oil industry featuring a photo of Ayatollah Kashani and Dr. Mossadegh together, and he immediately starts reading. Zargis goes to the kitchen and starts setting the breakfast table, when suddenly Shabrokh shouts: "Instead of reading newspapers and wasting paper, call someone to fix the ceiling—it's been leaking all night. It's been raining for several nights and water has found its way into the house. You need to replace the plywood of the roof like Mr. Hakopian's house with clay tiles or shingles. Also, the sewage line is clogged—you need to do something about that too; most likely a plane tree root has clogged it. I think there's going to be a heavy snowfall tonight."

Shabrokh turns the newspaper pages roughly and says: "Don't worry, I'll fix them myself."

Zargis lights the Warsaw samovar and puts tea leaves, saffron, cardamom, and cinnamon sticks into the porcelain teapot. This is the first morning she's preparing breakfast without Sam. She doesn't want to say "in Sam's absence" because Sam has a colorful but vague presence everywhere in this house. His scent reaches her everywhere, and she sees his image on the walls, making her even sadder.

She doesn't even have the energy to talk to herself to soothe her pain. When she reaches the honey pot and butter block, she chokes up. She takes the knife and spoon in her hand and says in a choked voice: "I'm here, but my child is who knows where! May I die... Sam loves butter and honey."

She puts the bread in the toaster. When it's ready, she spreads a layer of butter and a spoonful of honey on the toast, but her hand freezes in the air, and she sobs: "Let me eat, my son! When will I be free from this life's weariness—either I'll come to you, or whatever it takes, I'll bring you back to me."

Shabrokh is deeply engrossed in reading an article by Maryam Shabani comparing the American banana company that boosted the land of Macondo in One Hundred Years of Solitude with the British presence in Iran for oil exploration, pipeline construction, and refinery building, turning the barren Abadan into a "Little London." As if he has no son, his only concern is finding an attractive, eye-catching title for the literary magazine "Labda."

Zargis closes the honey pot lid to prevent ants from getting in, puts the butter block in the butter dish, and places it in the fridge so mice won't find their way to the breakfast table either. She puts some frost on her tongue, hoping her congestion subsides and her nerves calm. Then she firmly closes the "Bozhan refrigerator" built by Sam's own hands, turns off the Warsaw samovar, and leaves the teapot as it is. She reaches for her embroidered tea cozy but doesn't take it, when suddenly she hears something fall inside the fridge. She opens it and a cracked egg falls and breaks at her feet. She immediately uses a plastic dustpan and hand broom to clean it up and throws it out the half-open kitchen window into the garden, which is full of plane leaves—so much so that they even cover the pond, the bench, the sun lounger, the slide, and the swing in front of the entrance to the "mother-in-law's suite." This suite was converted by Behzad into a photography workshop before he became a doctor, where he taught photography and sometimes basic medical aid to the township's children. A vague and obscure image of Behzad and Sam's childhood appears before her eyes and then fades. She says: "It's no problem—it will be absorbed by the garden soil; it's pure protein."

It was as if she heard the sound of her own heart breaking. A strong wind begins to blow, bringing raindrops into the kitchen. The cold pricks Zargis's face, and for a moment the capillaries under her eyes become visible. The termeh-patterned kitchen curtains rustle against each other, and a heap of leaves enters the house. Zargis whispers: "Before Sam left, these curtains didn't rustle—they danced."

Dirt and soot fall from their heads and faces. The blue flower-patterned tiles are the same—as if no one has cleaned them for years.

Zargis straightens the curtains and closes the window so the smell of the broken egg doesn't bother her further, and she runs her hand over the flower-patterned tiles: "I'm no longer the woman who would wash you all and... I don't have the heart or spirit for it anymore. Please forgive me."

Shabrokh walks to the bathroom with a heavy gait, takes a drag, and spits his phlegm into the sink.

Zargis glances at Shabrokh from the kitchen with a frown and whispers: "Curse you, man—every morning of my life you've made me sick like this, and that's how I learned your wretched figure is in the house. At night you become a poet for me and recite poetry, and during the day, in the blink of an eye, you erase all your poetry, and I have to endure your off-key voice...!"

Shabrokh comes out of the bathroom, dries his hands and face with a towel, hangs it on the clothes rack, tightens his bathrobe belt, and heads to the living room. He moves a newspaper on the table, picks up the remote, turns on the TV, and lounges on the couch to catch up on the flood, rain, snow, and blizzard news—when suddenly an idea strikes him, and with excitement and a loud voice he says: "I found it! I found it! Thank God I found the front page title!" And then he commands Zargis: "Is the coffee ready?!"

He hears no answer—neither from Zargis nor from the coffee maker... He turns off the TV sound and says to Zargis in the kitchen: "By the way, dear Zargis, last night I had a very strange dream...!"

Zargis, who has propped her head on her arms and rested her elbows on the dining table, says in a sharp, broken voice with a sneer: "You must have had a nightmare last night—don't upset yourself, it was just nonsense you were wandering through!"

Shabrokh gets up from his seat, revitalized, with movement in his face so she won't think he's delusional and just giving a speech to the table and chairs: "Nightmare? Nonsense? I'm being serious! It started as a dream and ended as a nightmare..."

Zargis gets up from the dining table and comes to the living room, places the coffee set before Shabrokh, touches the Yalda Night spread on the floor! Cracked pomegranates and ripe persimmons in a woven basket, and an uncut watermelon on a brass tray. Then she sits behind her grand piano and says: "Instead of these ramblings, do something about the roof and the sewage line—do you want to entertain your fancy guests with umbrellas over their heads and handkerchiefs over their noses from the toilet stench? Especially that auntie of yours and her flashy daughter you were so infatuated with, hmm?!"

Shabrokh puts a chocolate in his mouth and tries to appear calm: "Why won't you let me finish what I'm saying? You've started again with your reminiscing and digging up the past... Why are you so grumpy today, hmm?!"

Zargis says without looking at him: "If the smell of rotten egg hit your nose first thing in the morning, you'd be no better than me. Don't delude yourself—you know very well, don't change your weaving of yarns. I'm suffering from the distance of my child, and you're talking about your nighttime nightmares. Go to the maintenance technicians as soon as possible—can't you see how the ceiling has yellowed and the plaster is blistering? The wood is also swelling. Move before the ceiling collapses on our heads and sewage filth covers the carpets."

Shabrokh stands over Zargis and says desperately: "Of course, just let me finish this dream or nightmare—it's completely different."

Zargis turns her head and says: "Fine, I'm listening!"

Shabrokh begins adding milk and sugar and arranging the cups on a lacquered tray, and places a full cup of coffee on the side table next to Zargis, but Zargis shows no interest in drinking it. Shabrokh takes a sip and puts the cup on the saucer, thinking this will annoy Zargis a bit more—

But Zargis occupies herself with playing the piano. She tries to play Mozart's 40th Symphony—her favorite—but can't, and starts playing another tune. Grief flows from every finger. She plays and softly hums in her melodious voice: "I wait for you with my eyes..."

Shabrokh ties his bathrobe belt and takes his ebony pipe and gold lighter from the drawer. He takes some Half & Half tobacco from his leather pouch, lights it, takes a few strong puffs, and exhales the smoke from his chest, so that for a few moments he sees Zargis's face shrouded in thick smoke. When the smoke clears, he says: "Yes, yes, you're right—for me it was a terrible nightmare, but for Sam it was a sweet dream. I don't know exactly—"

Zargis jolts and involuntarily strikes several piano keys simultaneously with a "rrrrrrrring," quickly jumping from her seat: "Sam? Okay, okay, continue—tell me what happened!"

Shabrokh says: "Don't rush me, because I'm afraid I might miss some scenes... I dreamed we were all together by the green spring of Lake Keo. Behzad was as usual feeding fish and ducks and chatting with children and pedestrians, most of whom recognized him and called him 'Doctor.' Sam was photographing the surrounding scenery of the lake, especially the maple trees on the other side of the lake and the elm trees around it. You ask Behzad why he doesn't go back to Canada for good, how long he wants to stay by this spring?! He answers: 'If I go there, who will feed these fish and ducks? Without me, they'll die very soon—I have a duty and commitment to them. Besides, this spring is the color of my Rozita's eyes!' When he rolls his eyes, it seems a small fish glides in the moisture of his eyes. I always saw him there and was lost watching him—too bad the fairy of my stories married a seven-headed demon and left me... I am a snowman who has fallen in love with the sun, and that is the essence of all the world's love stories."

Tears involuntarily stream from Zargis's eyes, and after a few moments of silence she says: "May it be good—please continue, tell me what happened next?"

Shabrokh takes his checkered handkerchief from his pocket and says: "Suddenly, the screams of the crowd around the lake are heard, all pointing toward the wooden cabin suspended in the middle of the lake, where a girl in a dark mesh dress has appeared on the water. There are no pedal boats or motorboats on the lake. Behzad immediately wants to dive into the water, but Sam stops him, hands his camera to Behzad, and jumps in himself, and I—as if to prevent the crowd from seeing heroics and juggling—dive in behind him to save the girl. Actually, I'm taking a leap of faith because the weather is freezing and the water is very cold and heavy, and the lake bottom is covered with moss and troublesome algae that limit visibility. I don't know why at that moment I forgot how to swim and couldn't move even a meter forward. My mouth filled with water and algae, and water covered my head. In an instant I saw Sam rescuing the girl and gasping as he carried her to shore. From that distance I saw Behzad with a lady with colored eyes and blonde hair and a beautiful face, like queens and fairy-tale characters, watching us. I think I was sweating in my dream because I only saw the lake bottom full of moss and algae and bubbles coming out of my mouth. No one heard my voice, and I just thrashed and sank deeper until I saw an armored man with a helmet riding a mare, holding a fiery mace in his right hand and a stone shield in his left, who addressed me, saying: 'I've lived here for many years, and tonight the "Zahhriz family" will gather in the ice palace, where Hemil, the elder brother, will be crowned in the presence of his younger brother Memil and their witch mother Dasho. And every year I fight two destructive, malicious winds—one bear-like and the other serpent-shaped—that, on Hemil and Memil and their mother's orders, try to freeze and dry up Lake Keo. You don't know about me, and they think I've drowned—I am actually the guardian of this lake, its white swans, its aquatic life, plants, and trees.' Then I woke up with the sound of thunder and lightning. I don't know the interpretation of this dream!"

Zargis sighs with relief: "Thank God, I'm relieved."

Shabrokh frowns: "Don't tell me you're happy I drowned, hmm?!"

Zargis pouts: "No! No! I don't mean you—I'm happy Sam survived... May I be sacrificed for you—somehow today I must contact him and find out about his condition, and somehow go to Lake Keo to see him and dissuade him from leaving. He vaguely said there's a special event at the lake today. A few nights ago, while I was telling Sam the legend of Hemil and Memil and their mother Dasho, he suddenly said it's so much like the fate of Behzad, you, and me. I immediately told him to bite his tongue—Behzad's wound alone is enough."

Zargis glances at the tapestry of the Last Supper and says: "Close that damned window. The rotten egg smell makes me sick. I don't know why I keep thinking tonight is the last meal I'll eat in this house."

Shabrokh closes the window and says: "Zargis, what is all this nonsense you're saying? By God, if you talk about leaving, you know..."

Zargis says: "My nonsense or yours that night when you told Sam?! The poor thing wasn't in any good mood."

Shabrokh takes another puff from his pipe: "The way you say 'poor thing,' anyone would think we're talking about a baby. You're also to blame because you loaded him with nonsense and told him: firefly..."

Zargis gets up and walks around the living room, touching the bronze horse's bridle in the buffet: "Yes, yes, I said it and I was wrong—but I only said that one word and zipped my lip. But then it was you who told him: owls, and started lecturing and explaining about owls and all that nonsense... You paced around and showed off your big belly. Weren't you ashamed in front of Sam?! No one stopped you, and you grumbled without listening to anyone—that's when I got fed up and sick of you."

Shabrokh wipes his half-drunk coffee in his checkered handkerchief and, after several heavy coughs, says: "Sam intentionally dropped the 'glass of life' that night to get us to our senses—he almost fell out of bed. But what made him leave the house was number one: the stranger and those suspicious calls that disturbed him."

Zargis stands over Shabrokh and rests her hands on the chair: "That's right—that unknown person who crowed like a rooster and woke him wasn't without effect. But your behavior was also a contributing factor. That poor child had a fever and chills—you were so angry that you shouted at him as much as you could. Call me a fool... Take this from me: until Sam returns to this house, I am not the lady of this house, nor are you my husband!"

Zargis goes back to her piano and Shabrokh to the wardrobe. Zargis starts playing, and Shabrokh puts on his coat, saying: "How beautifully you play the piano, dear Zargis! I'll go to the facilities before it's too late and inform the repair technicians, then go to the General Office. The car is for you, in case you want to go to Lake Keo... I'm just afraid the Engineering Bridge will wash away and cut our connection with the city—the bridge has been there since the 1940s and 50s when the Chenar Oil Company was established, but they've never reinforced it."

Zargis whispers: "I'll try to play like a mother—if I can..."

Saying this, she stands up: "No! No! I can't play like a mother and sit waiting like a mother by the phone and my mobile, waiting for my son's call! Like all expectant mothers, like all waiting mothers!"

Shabrokh frowns in annoyance, slams the door, and shouts: "Let us believe in the beginning of the cold season!"

Zargis says: "I'm waiting... any moment now he'll call."

The bell rings... The bell rings, and Zargis hurriedly picks up the phone: "Hello... hello... Is that you, dear?!"

But she hears no voice. It's the doorbell, and Zargis says helplessly: "It must be that damned Shabrokh who forgot his scarf and hat... But he has a key!"

Zargis gets up hastily, scratching her chin. She hesitates between going and staying, but finally chooses to go. When she opens the door, she sees Lillian with her kind face and smiling expression, in an English-collared coat worn over a pleated foreign-collar shirt, with a shawl tied in a bow around her neck, a cedar-green cap, a basket full of cracked pomegranates and ginger cookies shaped like pinecones, and a gift-wrapped package at the door. Zargis immediately embraces her, her sobs burst out, and she weeps like crystals.

Lillian says: "Dear, you're restless again—remember, life flows on, and you must enjoy it somehow... Before I forget, I have many guests tonight. I want you to help me make stuffed fish because I promised my guests stuffed fish. Lots of fragrant, colorful fish and herbs are waiting for the magic of your hands, dear Zargis. Also, I want you to talk to my guests about Persian carpets—from the day I learned my name is on a Persian carpet, I can't contain myself, and I wish I had an Armenian-woven Lilihan carpet under my grand piano."

She continues: "By the way, any news from Sam?"

Zargis says with tearful eyes and a choked voice: "I'm impatiently waiting for him to call—or maybe I'll go after him myself. It seems he intends to emigrate, but he said before going he needs to stop by Lake Keo to find Rozita."

Lillian wipes Zargis's tears with the back of her hand and says: "Maybe this journey will be a rebirth for him, so don't worry! Actually, my Sophia, according to their annual plan, is going with the children from the Center for the Intellectual Development of Children and Adolescents to the lake today to perform."

After giving Zargis a basket full of fruit, cakes, cookies, and a gift box, Lillian says with a gracious smile: "Excuse me, I must get to school quickly—Shabrang and Shabahang are neighing constantly, meaning they're impatient from waiting for me. Also, on my way back from school, I'll stop by Fish Market to get you some fresh catch from the port."

Zargis smiles and says: "If only you'd ask Soya to cook the fish on the terrace with her incomparable cooking on the barbecue—I don't have the heart or spirit for it anymore. If possible, we'll coordinate and go there together because I have several purchases from Dari Farm—our fridge is completely empty of milk, dairy, meat, and chicken."

Lillian answers: "With great pleasure, on one condition: if Sam decides to stay, he should come too—young people have their own world."

Zargis says: "I hope so. Actually, good news: according to the weather forecast, it's going to snow this Christmas—something you've always wished for."

Lillian says in English: "Snow on the roof, fire in the furnace," and Zargis continues: "A house with snow on its roof doesn't mean there's no fire in its fireplace."

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